Scandal of the Year (35 page)

Blythe stopped at the gate. It was opened a crack and Minx was heading up the flagstone path to the door. The dog barked. Blythe hurried into the garden to retrieve the animal just as the door opened.

A stooped old woman emerged from the cottage. Her white hair and frail appearance hit Blythe with a shock of recognition.

Mrs. Bleasdale. Her grandmother.

“My, look who’s here. Ye’ve come back fer another treat, have ye?”

The woman was speaking to Minx. Curious, Blythe ventured closer. “Have you met Minx, then?”

“Oh, aye. When yer young man came by.”

Her chest tightened. James had been here. Had he been looking for her? And Minx had accompanied him. It must have happened while Blythe had been napping by the stream. At least that explained the mystery of how the dog knew this place.

Mrs. Bleasdale beckoned with a gnarled hand. “Come in, dearie. Ye look fair draggled. I’ll fix ye a hot cuppa tea.”

The old woman shuffled back into the cottage.

Blythe hesitated. A part of her balked at the notion of accepting any companionship. Her emotions felt too raw for her to exchange pleasantries with the grandmother who had so abruptly appeared in her life.

But the bond they shared went beyond blood. They had both been duped by Blythe’s mother. Mercy Bleasdale.

Blythe went inside. She found herself in a snug room with a low, beamed ceiling and several windows that were open to the breeze. An earthenware vase of mixed flowers sat on a small table in the corner. Minx sat waiting on a rag rug that covered the wide-plank floor.

Mrs. Bleasdale stood at the large brick hearth on one wall. She ladled hot water from a bubbling iron pot into a mug, to which she added a pinch of tea leaves. She hobbled to the table, set down the cup, and pulled out a wooden chair.

“Come, dearie,” she said with a smile. “Do sit down.”

Blythe sat. Oddly, she found the invitation more welcome than any issued by a grand London hostess. Society would be agog to see her now, the premier heiress of the season drinking tea in her grandmother’s tiny cottage.

But Blythe was no longer an heiress. She was penniless. It didn’t matter that she had married James. He could keep his precious money. By heavens, she would not ask him for tuppence.

Mrs. Bleasdale bustled around the cottage, fetching a small pitcher of cream and a plate of golden scones. When Minx came begging, the old woman crumbled one of the pastries for her.

“’Tis still warm from the oven,” she said, using a knife to slather a scone with butter and blackberry jam. “There, ye’ll feel better when ye eat.”

Blythe had no interest in food, at least not until the delicious aroma penetrated the haze of her unhappiness. For the first time, she realized she’d had nothing to eat all day.

She took a bite that melted in her mouth. Trying not to appear ravenous, she consumed the scone quickly. “Thank you, Mrs. Bleasdale. You’re very kind.”

The old woman settled onto the other chair. “Ye must call me Granny. Such a wondrous day this is, to have ye here to visit.”

The waiflike woman had deep seams in her face and a sparkle in her hazel eyes. Blythe added cream to her tea and took the mug in her hands, hoping to warm the coldness inside her.

“Granny … how can you be so happy after what my mother did to you? She sent news long ago claiming that your daughter had died of cholera. How can you ever forgive her for doing such a terrible wrong?”

“Mercy has arisen from the dead. Is that not cause for rejoicing? ’Tis like the story of Lazarus in my Bible.” Mrs. Bleasdale buttered another scone and placed it on Blythe’s plate. “And she has given ye into my life, my only grandchild.”

Anger penetrated Blythe’s pain. “But she kept me from you. We’ve been back in England for three years. I could have been visiting you all this time.”

“Ye’re here now, and naught else matters. ’Tis truly a blessing.”

Blythe’s eyes filled with tears. Perhaps her grandmother was right, and she should look on the bright side. She had gained a grandmother, after all. Yet there was so very much she had lost today.

Her parents. Her sisters. Her husband.

A tear slid down her cheek, and she wiped it away.

Clucking in sympathy, Mrs. Bleasdale patted Blythe’s hand. “Ye’ve had a trying day, dearie. Just married, too, were ye?”

The floodgates opened and Blythe poured out the story of how James had taken the post of footman under false pretenses, charmed her into falling in love with him, and convinced her to run off to Scotland to be married. His elaborate scheme had involved luring her parents to Lancashire, all so that he could regain his inheritance by proving Mama was really Mercy Bleasdale.

“Even as a wee girl, my Mercy was never satisfied with her lot in life,” Mrs. Bleasdale said with a mournful shake of her head. “She always wanted more. Many a time I told her, ye’ll never be content that way.”

Blythe could see that her mother’s ambitions had sprung from a need to deny a lowly past. Yet she felt no sympathy. The shock of betrayal was still too painful. Bitterly, she said, “It’s no wonder my parents wanted me to marry a duke. It was to protect their position in society.”

“’Tis better the truth has come out,” Mrs. Bleasdale said. “A wound left to fester will only poison a body. Now ye can heal. Come outside now and sit for a bit. The sunshine will cheer ye.”

Blythe doubted that anything could make her happy ever again. She settled herself on a stool with Minx at her feet, while her grandmother tended the roses and hollyhocks. The sun hung low in the sky. At this time the previous day, she and James had arrived at Crompton Abbey and she had looked forward to their wedding night.

Pushing away the memory, she stood up abruptly. “May I help?”

Her grandmother showed her how to pull weeds and trim the dead foliage. Having never gardened, Blythe found it a welcome distraction from her troubled thoughts. Her world narrowed to leaves and twigs and cool, pungent earth. Kneeling in front of a flower bed, she was feeling marginally better when the sound of hoofbeats came from the lane.

A man on horseback wheeled to a stop in front of the gate.

The sight of James caused a terrible lurch in her heart. She sat back on her heels, her hands dirty and her senses raw. It was too late to dash into the cottage. Blast him, she wouldn’t hide, anyway.

Their gazes met and held. His grave expression showed no hint of the deviltry that had lured her into loving him. He looked unbearably handsome in his coffee-brown coat and white cravat, a fine gentleman on a ride through his estate.

Fury broke free from the tangle of her emotions. She no longer knew who he was. The man who had claimed her heart didn’t exist.

He made a move to dismount.

Blythe surged to her feet. “Do
not
set foot here,” she snapped. “There is
nothing
you can say that I wish to hear.”

He gave her a cool nod. “I wanted only to assure myself of your well-being,” he said. “I am going to London for a week or so. You are welcome to accompany me if you like.”

He must be anxious to claim her father’s money, she thought in disgust. There would be legal papers to sign, perhaps even reports to be filed with the magistrate. What would happen to her parents? She could only hope that Portia or Lindsey had the connections to help them.

Blythe lifted her chin. “Accompany you? I can think of nothing I would like
less
. Pray God you never return here.”

James gazed bleakly at her for another moment, then he turned the horse around and set off at a canter.

Minx whined at the latched gate, scratching with her paw. It was painfully obvious that she wanted to run after James.

Blythe caught up the dog in a hug. “No, Minx. I couldn’t bear to lose you, too.”

She would
not
weep. She
would not
. Such a scoundrel wasn’t worth a single tear. But when her grandmother came down the path and put her frail arms around Blythe, she clung to her granny and wept wretchedly.

*   *   *

Five days later, the letters began arriving. Not from James, but from her sisters.

Portia wrote that Papa had come to them the previous afternoon and confessed the whole sordid story. It had been a terrible shock to learn the hidden truth about their past. They were all still grappling with disbelief over the matter. Their mother had taken to her bed with a megrim and had refused to see anyone.

We remain your loving sisters
, Portia wrote at the end.
It doesn’t matter what our bloodlines are. Nothing has changed in our hearts.

Lindsey wrote that she had suspected something fishy all along about James, for he had played the role of Prince Nicolai far too convincingly. She now regretted keeping silent, for she had not realized that Blythe’s heart had become so engaged with him.

We love you, dear sister, and we miss you terribly. You will always have a home here with us.

Lindsey enclosed enough coins to cover Blythe’s fare back home.

Sitting in the cottage, Blythe bowed her head and wept. In the last week, she had become a veritable watering pot. These tears were not from the pain of loss and betrayal, but from relief. How could she have ever thought, even for a moment, that her sisters might shun her?

The next day, more letters arrived. Portia related amusing little stories about the children. Arthur had picked up a pretty brown stone in the garden, only to howl in aggrieved surprise when it had uncurled into an earthworm. Ella had laughed for the first time, and her happy disposition had made her the delight of the household.

Lindsey wrote that Kasi had known about the ruse from the start, for she had been the girls’
ayah
on the journey when the real George and Edith Crompton had died of cholera. All these years, Kasi had kept silent in order to protect the three sisters from the taint of scandal.

The letters continued to be delivered, day after day. Portia kept Blythe updated with news about the children, and every now and then mentioned James. In one, she said that he had dined with the family.

Pray don’t be angry with us for receiving him. He is, after all, our brother-in-law and second cousin to Lindsey and me. Perhaps you won’t wish to hear this, but James is not a happy man. I do believe he is suffering greatly for his ill treatment of you.

Suffering!

Thrusting the letter away, Blythe stomped into the garden and yanked out weeds. Her grandmother was clipping the ivy on the stone wall. “News of yer husband, I reckon?”

“I don’t know
how
my sisters can like him,” Blythe burst out. “He’s a heartless villain with no honor at all.”

“Ye fell in love with him,” Granny said with a wise smile. “Perhaps ye might try to remember why.”

Blythe recalled far too much. Every night as she lay in her little cot under the eaves where her mother had slept as a child, memories of him would haunt her. The glint of mischief in his eyes. His brash smile and teasing remarks. And oh, the feel of his hands on her body …

Instead of diminishing with the passage of time, the memories intensified, so that she would wake up in the dark, longing for the warmth of his arms around her.

Foolish, foolish, foolish!

In her next letter, Lindsey reported that Lady Davina had been in a snit ever since Prince Nicolai’s proposal to Blythe. Then James had made an appearance at a ball, and just as the duke’s daughter was curtsying to him in front of all of society, he’d revealed he was not a prince at all; he had played the role to win a private wager with Lord Mansfield. James had apologized most charmingly for the hoax.

Everyone but Lady Davina had been amused.

Amused!

Blythe tossed the letter down and went to the table to make scones, using her granny’s recipe. She measured the flour into a wooden bowl and cracked an egg. Adding currants and a pinch of salt, she wondered why her sisters were helping James gain a place in society.

Did the ton know that James had married her? Did they wonder why she had vanished? Were all the ladies flirting with him?

Mixing the dough, she denied a stab of white-hot jealousy. It shouldn’t matter anymore how he conducted his life. But if he dared to turn that heart-stopping smile on any other woman …

As the days passed, more letters arrived, including one from her father, who begged her forgiveness. He went on at length about how considerate James had been in not bringing them before a magistrate, and how generous he was in allowing them to keep Crompton House.
He will accept only your dowry and the estate in Lancashire, nothing more.

The news was so earthshaking that Blythe hastened outside to find her grandmother, who sat knitting beneath the shade of a tree while Minx pursued a butterfly through the garden. “James didn’t send my parents to prison, after all,” Blythe said breathlessly. “Nor did he claim my father’s fortune. I don’t understand it.”

“Why, dearie, ’tis simple. He must love ye very much.”

Blythe hardly knew what to say to that. Was it possible he had done this for
her
? Oh, how she wished she could know for certain. Her insides felt like a roiling mass of anxiety.

“Granny, how can you always be so wise and so content?”

Those hazel eyes smiled. “The happiest people don’t always have the best of everything. They make the best of everything they have.”

Blythe pondered that. It was time to stop brooding over the past and make the best of
her
life. As much as she liked staying here with her grandmother, she could not hide any longer from her family—or James.

It was time for her to return to London.

Chapter 31

“Lady Mansfield and Lady Ratcliffe are in the nursery,” a footman informed Blythe. “I will inform them at once that you are here.”

“It’s quite all right. I know the way.”

As Blythe started up the grand staircase at Pallister House, she marveled at the enormity of the entrance hall. Only weeks ago she had wanted to become mistress of such a fine house as her sister’s. But after a month spent in the cozy quarters of her grandmother’s cottage, she had learned what truly mattered in life.